


Anything You Want

by honestys_easy



Category: Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Karaoke, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-09
Updated: 2009-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year for Andy's birthday, Neal promises to give him anything he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything You Want

**2000**

"You're a dork."

"You said--"

"A huge fucking dork."

"--Anything I want." Andy shot him a self-satisfied grin, eyebrows perking up as Neal inwardly groaned, regretting his previous promise.

"Couldn't you just be normal and ask for beer or something?" But a promise was a promise, and if this was how Andy Skib wanted to spend his birthday, then so be it. Neal just hoped the younger man didn't have the same schemes planned for Neal's own birthday, which he would insist include much more alcohol than this.

There were those pleading eyes of his, large and expressive, pouting through delicate eyelashes like a puppy dog. An annoying, manipulative puppy dog you couldn't help but bring in from the November chill so he didn't starve. Neal already knew he was vulnerable to those eyes, and he wondered if it was a trick Andy used on everyone to get his way, or just him. 

"I only get twenty-four hours of this," Andy explained his reasoning. There was a bathroom in the Skibs' finished basement, a thermos of coffee freshly brewed atop a stack of music notebooks, and enough club sandwiches to feed the entire jazz band for a semester. Andy made sure there were enough provisions for the pair to hibernate until April, let alone the rest of the day. "And I want to make it count."

Taking in a deep sigh, Neal finally resigned himself to his fate. Anything Andy wanted for his birthday, he promised, and Neal would never go back on his word, not for Andy. "Alright then," he covered his eyes in mock humiliation of what he had just agreed to, but couldn't help but peek through to spy the triumphant, and almost elated, smile on Andy's face. It brought the hints of a smile to Neal's lips; he couldn't have been locked in a basement for 24 hours with better company. "Let's take it from the chorus," he announced, pulling his guitar into his lap with one arm and retrieving the pencil behind his ear with the other.

***

**2001**

For a skinny little thing, Neal thought through a cloudy whiskey haze, Andy was fucking _impossible_ dead weight. It didn't help matters much that the pair discovered that evening Andy was also an incredibly handsy drunk.

"Dude, if you don't stop giggling, I'm fucking leaving you on the stairs," Neal muttered, taking the carpet-padded steps up to his bedroom and intensely thanking the gods of teenage life his parents were heavy sleepers. His remark only caused Andy--half-tripping up the stairs on unsure legs himself, his body weight leaning into Neal who kept him from tumbling over the railing--to snort in amusement, finding their entire predicament the most hilarious thing he had ever experienced. If it had been anyone else falling into Neal's arms, using him as a crutch and threatening to puke up the shots they shared that night, Neal would have dumped the body in his driveway to ridicule the next morning.

But this was Andy, and it was his birthday, and Neal had promised him anything he wanted. Neal was pretty sure Andy would not want to spend the evening curling up next to concrete.

So up to Neal's bedroom it was, both teenagers too inebriated to haul their bodies anywhere but upstairs, much less in a condition to drive. Neal untied Andy's shoes while the younger man tried to strip off his jeans with the sneakers still on his feet, admonishing Neal with a laugh for allowing him to drink his age in whiskey. At this rate, he said, oblivious to Neal's gaze on his bare legs, he would never make it out of his teen years.

His drunken mumblings grew softer once his body hit the mattress, grin widening in glee as his eyes drifted shut, steadying his spinning head on the closest thing he found--Neal's shoulder. "I love you, man," he elongated each vowel sound, enjoying how they sounded in his throat and rolled off his tongue like he never had before. He didn't notice how Neal was enjoying it as well. "Like, loooove you, love you. Like, making music love. Like grilled cheese sandwich love."

"You're so fucking drunk," Neal laughed, trying not to focus on Andy's body beside his, the curve of a smile against full lips. Andy's breath danced hotly against the skin of his neck, the scent of purloined whiskey and cheap beer and something so delicately _Andy_ underneath it made Neal want to write a thousand songs in celebration. He peered down at Andy's face, that smile, those lips, and dared to lean in closer, the air around him suddenly stiff and hot, as if the room itself were holding its breath instead of just him. Reaching over to brush a thumb against Andy's cheekbone, tilting the younger man's chin up only inches from his own, Neal paused only when he noticed Andy's steady, rhythmic breathing, his unresponsiveness to a kiss that almost occurred.

Neal smiled, albeit a bit regretful that he did not act a second sooner, a moment or two before Andy passed out for the night. He wasn't even sure if a kiss would be what Andy wanted, a bond that would take their friendship far beyond midnight writing sessions and sneaking liquor from their parents. And after all, it was _Andy's_ birthday and he had promised him anything Andy wanted, not what Neal desired.

His consolation was a kiss on Andy's temple, the younger man's head coming to rest once more on Neal's shoulder, its permanent residence for the night. "I love you, too," he whispered, before joining his friend in sleep.

***

**2002**

Holy fuck, did he look gorgeous.

Neal could stare at him for hours like this, lean, naked body hovering over his own, parted, kiss-swollen lips asking without speaking, eyes open and wide, pleading with Neal, _wanting_ him. Neal couldn't say no to that look, never had.

The only light in the room was the last, dying embers of a cigarette Neal had abandoned for a more carnal vice than smoking, the thick curls of smoke hanging around them like a protective layer, a net separating the rest of the world and time itself from the couple in that room, wishing that this would last forever.

"We do this all the time," he said, voice no louder than a growl in his throat, palms running up the length of Andy's back, the skin there prickling into gooseflesh from the November cold. He'd warm that skin up in a moment, Neal thought achingly, grinding his hips against Andy in instinct, his cock tantalyzingly close to Andy's entrance. He knew the warmth he would find there, the unbelievable sensations waiting for him in that body just inches from his own.

With the cigarette smoke curving around his frame, casting his visage in a fog, Andy looked hauntingly ethereal to Neal, a spectre, like a fucking spirit. Literally. "I know," Andy whispered, guiding Neal's cock into him, gritting his teeth as his body naturally resisted to the pressure, finally relenting with a shudder and a moan of pleasure. Neal thought he couldn't imagine anything more alluring until Andy leaned in, Neal's hips instinctively moving with him in one fluid motion, and added, "But this is what I _want_."

***

**2003**

"The ham was fantastic, Mrs. Skib."

"It should have been," joked Andy beside him, a mischievous grin on his face as he poked at the leftover green beans on his plate. "You _did_ have three helpings of it."

Neal emphasized his pleasure for the Skib family birthday meal by patting his visibly full belly indulgently, tipping his dining chair back to maximize post-dinner comfort. His newly acquired weight left him misjudging, however, and as the chair began tipping past its mark of balance Andy pressed a hand to Neal's knee, righting him and ensuring the well-being of both his boyfriend and the dining chair.

A laugh came up from the crowded table, Neal's presence at the Skib house as welcome and familiar as at his own. "It's like I have three kids instead of two," Andy's mother commented as she shook her head at the empty platter of ham. The pair smiled happily at her, though their minds were preoccupied with Andy's hand refusing to remove itself from Neal's knee, and Neal complicit in the argument by covering the hand with his own.

The night was only supposed to begin at the Skib house, a Sunday birthday dinner insisted upon by Andy's parents with the unspoken, implied truth that Neal was always welcome; it was to end in whatever third-rate bar would overlook the deep flaws in Andy's fake ID, and open the bar to him with welcoming arms. But the pair grew engrossed in the evening Bills/Chargers game, ignoring the cell phone calls from their impatient friends with every play, both men making a pact not to gloat too heartily if the other team lost. The game went well into overtime, and with full bellies and smiles on their faces they fell asleep curled up beside each other on the couch before they ever discovered the final score.

***

**2004**

For all the tattoos that adorned his flesh, all the piercings that marked him as unique; for however hardcore he appeared while on a stage, mastering his axe as if he were the demonic instrument of some higher being, playing as if possessed, Neal's sexual desires were surprisingly vanilla. He enjoyed sex--dear God, may lightning strike him down and revoke his right to a dick if he didn't enjoy sex--but it was all about the sensation to him, the feel of someone else's flesh against his own, a tight heat wrapped around him, bringing him ever closer to that moment of euphoria, when nothing else in the world mattered but _him_ and never, ever coming down from it. The details of how he gets to that moment, when Andy's body makes him feel so good he's fully convinced he may die if they ever stop fucking, are secondary to Neal, his primary concern the apex itself, the ends justifying any means necessary.

Andy, as Neal learned very early into their relationship, did not feel the same way.

"Never thought you'd be the superfreak, Skib," he smiled into Andy's skin, feeling the startled, uncontrolled jump of the younger man's body below him on the bed. A hand stroking against one nipple, the other digging into a hipbone, his lips making their way inch by inch along Andy's collarbone; it was a little thrilling to know his blindfolded boyfriend had no idea where he would touch him next.

"Fuck you," answered Andy, and he quickly followed it with a gasp as Neal's mouth took notice of the other nipple, pulling it in between his teeth, reveling in the way he made Andy's back arch with pleasure. He wished Andy could touch him in the same way now, Neal's cock so surprisingly hard from this, one would think it was _his_ kink, and not Andy's. His fingers trailed up the well-known pathway of veins and muscle to Andy's hand, bypassing the necktie at his wrist binding him there and focusing instead on the younger man's fingers, entwining them with his own.

"Is that what you want?" His voice dropped low along with his other hand, dipping in between Andy's spread legs, his index finger teasing the hole in slow, small circles. With a restrained whine Andy's legs struggled against his bonds, wishing to spread wider. "You want me to fuck you?" Neal didn't realize how much this worked for him as well, how hard and needy he had become until he took both of their cocks in his hand, stroking them in tandem, and surprised himself with the shudder coursing through his frame. "Whatever you want, Andy, it's yours," he insisted, as he did every year, his hand stroking them together, Andy's hips bucking his cock into Neal's fist as much as his bonds allowed. He started to worry Andy would break the damn bedframe until the younger man came with a choked cry, overwhelmed by the stimulus of his lover's hand upon him while Andy was helpless to reciprocate, to do _anything_ but lay back and enjoy it. Neal soon followed, moaning into Andy's abdomen as they both made an absolute mess of the sheets and couldn't give a fuck either way.

Unable to endure a moment longer, Neal tugged at the blindfold across Andy's eyes, desperate to look into them, to see the satisfaction and lust he always knew was there. What he was met with were two calculating large eyes, deviousness hiding along with flecks of green in the irises of deep brown. "What I want," he said, after a breathless kiss, Neal's tongue demanding him to end these games and let him make love to Andy freely; but he had to realize on Andy Skib's birthday, Andy always got what he wanted. "Is for you to get your turn next."

***

**2005**

"No."

"Oh, come on!"

"No. Fuck no!"

"But it's my _birthday_ ," Andy pouted as the waitress replaced his empty shot glass with a full one, mentioning it was number fourteen of twenty but none of the men at the table paid her any mind. Their focus was on the argument at hand--namely, at Andy Skib's hand, the microphone as powerful and menacing as a sword or scepter in ancient times.

Neal replied with a sneer, knowing Andy had him cornered. "For only twenty more minutes," he reasoned, but his boyfriend did not pull punches.

"Then you better get your ass up there, Tiemann." When he was a teenager and all he wanted was to spend the entire day writing music with his best friend, promising Andy anything he wanted for his birthday was a much easier task. Now, the other man was older and wiser, and knew exactly how to push Neal's buttons just so, an intricate play for the maximum amount of playful humiliation.

After an intense showdown of glares--Neal's stony sneer versus Andy's smile, smug because he knew he would win--Neal grudgingly snatched the microphone from Andy's hand, also stealing the shot in the process; the more alcohol in him, the better. An enthusiastic slap on his ass as he stood from the table revealed itself not to be from Andy but from David, eyes wrinkled from laughter, wide grin egging his friend on. "Go get 'em, tiger," he said, motioning Neal towards the television screen.

Neal shot a look at David that indicated he would not forget this injustice--Andy had requested it in the first place but he also fucked Neal on a regular basis, and David was really not willing to go that far for a joke. Positioning himself in front of the karaoke screen before all of his friends, Neal promised a grim revenge when Andy pointed down at the screen, the song title flashing in front of his eyes a dreadful, dismal "My Heart Will Go On."

"I am so getting him to do this for my birthday, too," David joked as Neal began singing the first verse through gritted teeth.

***

**2006**

"This is...definitely weird."

The head popped up from between Neal's legs, a concerned expression overpowering the lust in Andy's eyes. "I can stop," he suggested, though the continuous movement of his fingers implied otherwise.

He twisted them then, brushing against something inside Neal that made the older man see stars behind his eyelids, the sensations Andy was giving him transitioning quickly from weird to fucking incredible. "No," he moaned, biting his lip, tasting the metallic reality of silver and blood on his tongue. "Don't stop."

It was a first for Neal, though considering the obverse side of the coin it was so appropriate the situation was near poetic. One good fuck deserves another. He hadn't realized how much he was enjoying it, fingers twisted into the sheets, his leg hoisted up onto Andy's shoulder, exposing himself fully, until those fingers retreated and left Neal groaning, wordlessly asking for more.

Their roles usually reversed, Neal suddenly felt like the vulnerable one, staring up into Andy's eyes, waiting for action instead of being the one to take it. Under a fringe of dark, tousled hair Andy still saw everything, Neal's emotions never hidden from the man who always knew how to find them. "We don't have to do this," he offered; it was the first time in over five years Andy ever offered an alternative to Neal's yearly birthday gift, the sincerity and concern in his voice so heavy it made Neal ache for him--his heart, his body, _everything._

With a resolute nod he urged Andy to go forward; what sympathy he saw in those eyes was replaced with carnal desire, the younger man's mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Andy leaned in closer as Neal waited, anticipating; tried to focus on the tightening grip of Andy's hand on his thigh instead of the burning pressure as Andy entered him. Neal promised to give him whatever he wanted on his birthday; _anything_ , and that included himself.

***

**2007**

"Fuck you."

Neal sighed on the other end of the line; he at least expected a hello first. "Andy--"

"No. Fuck you." That time he had heard it loud and clear, could almost see the sneer on Andy's face masking the hurt Neal heard in his voice. Instantly he regretted making the call, wishing he could be anywhere else in the world right then; wishing he could be _there_ with him. "You expect just to get along fine with a  phone call?!"

"I'm sorry," was his instinctual answer, palm pressed against the window of some nameless Texan hotel. The glass pane was warm, indicating a typical balmy Southern night; it was probably cold enough in Tulsa for Andy to need his lambskin coat, the one he refused to part with even though the edges were frayed and he had never grown into it like his parents expected. He wished it were cold there, too, if only to give him the illusion that Andy wasn't so far away.

"You've got a party right downstairs," he reminded Andy, knowing his friends' plans for weeks now. "Dave and Bryan are there, I'm sure."

Neal could almost hear Andy's grip on the phone grow tighter with anger, and there came the words of greeting again, this time with no attempt on Andy's part to hide his disappointment. " _Fuck. You._ " He envisioned the party bustling in the living room, David holding court and Bryan manning the bar, twenty-two shots lined up and waiting for the birthday boy. But the image that brought pangs of guilt stabbing into Neal's chest and tears pricking at his eyes was Andy, alone and fuming in his bedroom, because his best friend had to miss his fucking birthday.

"Anything I want for my birthday, Neal?" The sting of his words were gone now, leaving a longing that went far past the physical, something deep in his chest that caught not in Andy's throat but in Neal's, a lump of regret he begged with all of his will the chance to right again. He didn't realize exactly when being in a relationship meant being _in a relationship_. "I want to feel you next to me, dammit. I just want you _here_."

He opened his mouth to apologize again but the phone line went dead; Andy had already hung up.

***

**2008**

Navigating the subway system had been a snap, Andy recognizing the different lines and stops from last year's vacation like the map was glued to his eyelids. It had been sneaking away from the rest of the group that proved difficult--Joey, Kyle, the endless number of suits and agents that followed David around like puppies, tied by short leashes to his pursestrings. The only one who was easy to bypass was David himself, giving the pair a knowing wink as he settled in for yet another radio interview.

"Dude, it's not even my birthday yet," Andy tried to protest, the actual date a full week away, but Neal wasn't letting this opportunity go to waste. If Andy hadn't learned not to voice vague, dreamy desires at random points of the night by now in their relationship without Neal acting upon them, then he hadn't learned much of anything since fifteen. "And I don't even think it's still there."

Still Neal persisted, tugging him along Bleecker Street, tattooed fingers peeking out of the holes of his knit gloves and entwining with Andy's. Despite the Quizno's where there used to be a pool hall and a Chase bank on the ground floor of an ancient tenement, the Lower East Side was still a place where two men could walk briskly down the street holding hands and no one would bat an eye. The only things Andy planned to ask Neal for on his birthday were a nap and possibly a blowjob, two things Neal was more than happy to provide. His wildest desires had already come true: once again he was in a band with his best friends, now playing on television for millions of people, a national tour in the works. Whatever came after this was just gravy.

"It's cool, it's got to be there," urged Neal, rounding the corner onto the Bowery, waiting for the familiar tattered awning to greet him like a kindly old grandfather, a friend. But when they reached the address it was a clothing boutique that greeted them, the once mighty Mecca of punk rock music torn down to shreds, the last vestiges of New York's classic indie music scene, the very soul of CBGB, forever lost to money lords.

The older man looked like his puppy had just been run over by a Wal-Mart truck; he stared up at the new awning in disbelief, yet another legendary music venue whitewashed and sacrificed to the mainstream. He had wanted to see it again as much as Andy, both musicians paying respect to their rock elders, growing up hearing the stories of bands finding their fame on the dingy stage and hoping to make their own way there one day. "Fuck," he said, unable to hide his disappointment, his mind so focused on the absence of CBGB that he didn't notice he still held Andy's hand in the middle of the sidewalk. "I really thought _something_ would still be here. I could've sworn..."

Neal's thoughts were interrupted by a squeeze of his hand and a kiss against his cheek. "I still love you for it," Andy said into his ear, breath tickling the hairs on Neal's neck, because it had been the journey itself, the hope, the anticipation, that had made it all worth it.

***

**2009**

A hotel bar full of Jack Daniel's and Pabst, the latter having to be special ordered by David because the Grand Hyatt was apparently too swanky for Blue Ribbon. A full set-up for beer pong, flip cup, and any other ridiculous college drinking game Neal and Andy would have mastered had they gone to college. Absolutely no karaoke to speak of. Twenty four shots lined up along the mahogany bar, with a perfectly-positioned bucket at the end of the arduous line.

All of which waited downstairs for the pair, and all of which was organized without Neal's input or advice. He still had to provide his own contribution to Andy's birthday.

"Same offer as always, Skib," he said in their hotel room, reaching over to brush an errant strand of hair from Andy's eyes. It would be rude to delay the birthday boy from his festivities, but Neal was sure the others would understand. "Anything you want. Just name it, it's yours."

Andy paused, but only for a moment, his large, brown eyes searching Neal's blue ones, before leaning in to press his lips to Neal's. He felt the cold, familiar sting of silver rings against his own lips, the limber and friendly tongue snake into his mouth as he wrapped his arms around Neal, pressing their bodies together, wishing to envelop the both of them in that warmth. When they finally pulled apart, faces near inches away from each other, Neal refusing to fully disentangle himself from Andy's embrace, the answer was right there in his eyes, his kiss, his touch. Andy didn't need to make the request aloud, it was right there in front of them the whole time. Whether it be on a stage in front of millions or a heated moment shared just by two, all Andy wanted for his birthday was the gift to spend it with Neal.


End file.
